Birthdays are, obviously enough, the temporal equivalent of borders or landmarks. We pass them and in theory are not the same on the other side. At least that’s what our culture tells us. Birthdays always bring to mind the now-odd notion that most people in the history of the world have had no idea just how old they are, so it’s a boundary because we say as much.

But they can provide real metrics of comparison. For instance, there are firsts in a child’s life that correlate to her age. Birthdays, then, can provide a dual marker: someone turns a year older; someone else experiences a first in relation to that.

Shortly after our arrival, K had her first birthday in the States. We were staying with my parents until we found jobs and settled into a city — eventually Asheville, though only for tw years. We went out to eat, had a cake — the usual.

Now, six years later, we celebrated once again with my parents: a grilled London Broil (one of K’s favorites) and all the summer accessories. Though the weather didn’t cooperate, it was nothing to the head grill chef: there’s no stopping a man on a grilling mission. It just can’t be done.

There’s also no stopping a four-year-old on a mission: as Papa was grilling in the rain, the Girl worked on perfecting her living room gymnastics and tumbling routine, taking occasional breaks to dance to the music coming from this or that program on Nick Jr.

But this birthday was different. Sure, there were Klondike Double Chocolate bars for desert — a first for all of us, but a relatively insignificant first.

Sure, K turned 26. I suggested she might want to do 25 for another year (she’s been in a holding pattern there, just as I, for a number of years now), but she decided to step out into a new age. Significant, but not earth-shattering.

What was most significant was, as always, how our daughter grew. It was the first year that L chose a present for K on her own.

It was a risky proposition.

She was insistent, though, on buying a new jewelry box for K. “The one she has is old,” she advised me sagely. “Mama needs a new one.”

So off went to find a jewelry box. What we bought was a candle holder, though. Pink, and shaped like a star, no less.

“I want this one!” L proclaimed when she saw it.

“You mean you want to buy this for Mama?” I clarified.

“Right.”

I tried to explain it wasn’t, in fact, a jewelry box. Yet the fact that it had a small door with a hing countered any argument I put forth. There’s reasoning with a little girl on a mission to buy a jewelry box for her mother.